


On Canvas

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Cora Hale, BAMF Lydia Martin, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Getting Together, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t do commissions?” Cora said.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You do when the person’s willing to pay double your rent for a consultation,” Laura fired back.</i>
</p>
<p>Cora is a struggling artist, barely able to make ends meet. When the opportunity to paint millionaire Lydia Martin arises, she reluctantly takes on the challenge -- and gets much more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> See that word count? This is the longest story I've written in YEARS.
> 
> I want to give a shout out to [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_london_to_blood_mylove/pseuds/theyoungestzerogmechanic), [Eszter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsider), [Sydney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sydbull) and [Steen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AFireInTheAttic/pseuds/AFireInTheAttic) for cheerleading, pre-reading, beta'ing and all around being fantastic. Without them, this story might not have ever seen the light of your computer screen.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t do commissions?” Cora said.

“You do when the person’s willing to pay _double_ your rent for a consultation,” Laura fired back.

Cora scoffed. “I didn’t realize you were my accountant _and_ my mother now.”

It was an old argument between them, but Cora could tell she had trod just a _little_ too hard on past strife when Laura straightened up, her expression relaxing into a look that was a carbon copy of their late mother’s. It was unsettling, but Cora squared her shoulders. She wasn’t backing down this time. Her sister needed to accept that Cora could handle her own life, her own affairs. She was working on compiling another selection for the gallery downtown, and she was certain that it would be the one -- and her big break.

“If you would stop being stubborn with trying to uphold your bullshit artistic integrity for _one_ second -- just _one_ \-- maybe you could get your name out there,” Laura said, tone exasperated, eyes imploring. “I _know_ you’re having trouble paying bills -- Derek snitched, so don’t even try to lie to me.”

Cora crossed her arms, livid. It wasn’t that she had trouble paying the bills -- it was that she was using credit cards to float to the end of the month; a fact she had confided in Derek, and something he promised he wouldn’t tell Laura. “Fuck off,” she said heatedly. She’d say the same to Derek when she saw him next, too.

Laura stopped short, the calm expression on her face morphing to match Cora’s anger. “You’re living in a 400 square foot studio above a Laundromat. Think about your life,” she said coolly. “I’ll see myself out, little sister.”

Laura left, slamming the door behind her hard enough to shake Cora’s one picture frame off the wall. Her departure left a deafening silence, a quiet that heightened the fury building in Cora’s bones. She kicked her futon, but it was a useless retaliation that did nothing but tweak her big toe. She wanted to yell, or punch something, but her neighbors across the way had called the cops on her the last time she’d gotten into a screaming match with Laura over the phone. She’d gotten off with a warning, but she suspected another warning might get her evicted -- her landlord was an asshole.

It wasn’t that Cora didn’t love her sister. She did. They were close. And it wasn’t that her elder sister wasn’t supportive. She was more than; a sharp turnaround from when she’d begged and pleaded Cora to do anything but paint. Now, she was the family’s biggest cheerleader, putting her wants and desires on the backburner when Derek and Cora needed her to. But she was a meddler of the highest degree, and didn’t comprehend that Cora _did not_ want or need her help. To come over and practically demand Cora do something, like she was some caricature artist at a theme park -- it just pissed her off.

She scrubbed her hands through her hair, fighting back the angry tears. She needed a drink. There was nothing in the fridge save for a beer. It was PBR, its origins murky, but it would do. She cracked it open and plopped down onto the edge of the futon, anger crackling under her skin like electricity. _Screw the rent_ , she thought, heart pounding in her chest. _Screw the bills stamped past due_. _Screw Laura and her friend who knows somebody who knows somebody that needs a portrait._ She was doing fine. She would continue to be fine. Money wasn’t everything.

She took a sip of her crap beer. She was okay. Really.

 

-

 

Cora woke the next morning with her stomach in knots, the anger from last night replaced with heavy guilt. She’d slept like shit, waking up every few hours to agonize over her and Laura’s fight. Worse yet, logic had snuck in somewhere between one and three in the morning, and now she was seriously considering picking up the commission Laura had dangled in her face the day before. Because -- damn it -- Laura was _right_. Cora hated to admit she was wrong, but she was barely scraping by, pulling night shifts at the 24/7 diner on the corner when her sales didn’t go through; which, honestly, was more often than not. The tiny coffee shop where Erica worked (and managed to get Cora’s art on the walls) wasn’t enough, and the gallery in town had rejected her twice before. Her apartment was falling apart, the fumes coming through the vent would probably kill her some day, and her credit score was taking a beating. She needed a change, a chance. If some commissioned portrait might do that -- well, maybe it was worth doing, even if it felt like she was selling out.

She picked up her cell and tried calling Laura a few times to apologize, but gave up each time. She was garbage over the phone, and would probably make the situation worse. Instead, she stepped over the broken glass by the doorway and rode her bike downtown to Laura’s apartment.

Laura swung the door open before Cora could even get around to knocking, dragging her in with an almost-painful hug. “You’re such a little shit,” she said, voice muffled against Cora’s temple. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I know,” Cora said, squeezing her sister back just as tightly.

Laura pulled back. Her eyes were rimmed red, like she’d been up all night worrying. Knowing Laura, she probably had. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah.” She gave her sister a tired smile. “I’m starving.”

Laura waved her in, and that was it. Cora knew all was forgiven.

“You’re still meeting with Lydia, by the way,” Laura said, after they tore through the pancakes and scrambled eggs.

Cora groaned, though she was secretly thankful Laura brought it up. “Fine,” she conceded. “Who is this chick anyway?”

“Lydia Martin. Genius mathematician. Millionaire playgirl philanthropist. Probably another handful of adjectives.”

“So… she’s Batman.”

“More like Catwoman.” Laura smirked. “I’ve only met her once. She’s -- kind of a bitch.”

“Great. So why does Selina want a nobody painting her portrait?”

“I didn’t ask, honestly. I just followed the hookup.” She nudged Cora’s shin with her foot, looking contrite. “Hey -- about last night…”

“Yeah,” she said, flopping back on the couch. It was all water under the bridge; no hard feelings, even if they both knew they would have to _talk_ it out, not just allude to apologies in the special Hale family way. Not that Cora wanted to talk about it. “Can we maybe save the emotions for another day and an open bottle of wine?”

Laura huffed out a laugh. “Nice try,” she groused. Then, somber, “I’m just worried about you, Cor.”

“You know I’m submitting my stuff, right?” Cora asked, picking at the pills on Laura’s old blanket. It was one of the few relics they had recovered from the fire; sometimes Cora thought it still smelled faintly of smoke, but it was too precious to throw away. “It’s not like I _want_ to keep working at the diner. It’s not like I’m stoked to beliving above Happy Suds.”

Laura frowned. “I know you’re not,” she said. “And I also know you’re an adult -- and a fucking stubborn one, too... so I won’t give you advice until you ask for it, okay? Just know I’m _always_ here for you. No matter what.” She stuck her pinky out, just like she used to do when they were younger.

Cora hooked her finger around Laura’s with a sad smile, remembering all the promises Laura had made and never broken after the fire. “No matter what?”

“No matter what,” Laura said solemnly. “I promise.”

 

-

 

A week later, Cora had a missed call and a voicemail on her phone when her diner shift was through.

It was from a Jackson Whittemore, personal assistant to Lydia Martin, requesting to schedule a meeting for the portrait. The guy sounded like the biggest douche ever, and while Cora realized how desperate her situation was, she still had to call Derek, Laura, and Boyd each to give her the strength to return his call.

Eventually she did, and she and Jackson settled on Saturday, though Cora still wasn’t sure why a meeting was even necessary. All she needed was time and a good quality reference photo. Even so, each day leading up to her so-called appointment had her biting her nails, imagining the worst. It was strange. Before, she couldn’t have cared less about painting some middle-aged tart. Now, with the promise of bills paid and a roof over her head, she was nervous.

The week flew by fast. Before she knew it, Saturday morning dawned bright and early and Cora headed off to the tiny studio that ate up most of her income, still confused as to why a millionaire math buff would want _her_ , an unknown Beacon Hills artist, to paint her at all. She’d won a few local art shows while she was in school, but most of her portfolio hadn’t received the accolades she’d hoped it would. In fact, the first blowout fight she’d ever had with Laura was about her lack of success. She’d wanted Cora to switch majors to something more _practical_. That time, the two of them had refused to speak for two months. Cora sighed at the memory. Not much had changed. She was still a struggling artist, and Laura still wanted her to do well -- even if that meant giving up on what she loved to do most.

Cora sketched to pass the time, using the graphite pencils Derek had gifted her last year on her birthday. She let her hand flow across the page, Laura’s profile coming to life. By the time she pulled herself out of her trance, it was fifteen minutes past ten, and Lydia Martin was supposed to be at the studio half an hour ago. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” she grumped, doodling a tiny devil in the corner of her pad, quickly labeling it _Lydia_ with a cartoony arrow.

She was ready to call the whole thing off when the door swung open with a groan, and a stiletto-wearing redhead stepped through. She was gorgeous; a designer handbag hanging off her forearm like a prize.

Cora stood. “Can I help you?” Nobody ever stopped by the studio -- mostly because it was hidden behind an industrial warehouse in the sketchier part of Beacon Hills.

The woman pulled her sunglasses off and gave Cora a very deliberate up-down check. “I highly doubt it.”

Cora clicked her tongue, hackles raised. It was a record for hate-at-first-sight for her. Impressive. “Look, I’m waiting on someone --“

“That someone would be me,” the woman interrupted, glossy lips turning up into a condescending smile. “I’m almost insulted you didn’t Google me.”

“Lydia Martin,” Cora said, deadpan. Inside, she was screaming. She had been expecting an older woman. A _much_ older woman. Lydia couldn’t have been much older than Cora herself. She cursed Laura for not giving her a proper head’s up.

“Cora Hale,” Lydia replied, tone unimpressed. “I’m on a time crunch and it smells like acrylics in here. Are you ready?”

Cora ground her teeth together before answering, “Whenever you are.”

Their first meeting wasn’t a complete disaster, but it was damn near close to it. Lydia wanted to pose for the painting, but repeatedly said she wouldn’t have more than half an hour at a time to give; and every idea Cora came up with was shot down without tact, though Lydia never actually said what she wanted, no matter what angle Cora tried to use to wring it out of her.

The silver lining was that at the end of the session, where no actual progress towards the portrait was made, Lydia handed Cora a sizeable check. “For time and labor,” she said, and Cora saw her out. The downside was that Jackson called to set up another appointment five minutes later.

She considered calling Laura afterwards -- a good snark session always calmed her down -- but instead, she turned to her sketchpad.

 

-

 

Cora sat back, emotionally exhausted from recanting the latest meeting-slash-bitchfest of the week to her siblings. The three of them got together as often as they could, though in recent years it had become increasingly difficult to match their schedules. Derek traveled as a freelance journalist, and Laura was often bogged down with cases; she was a lawyer, and slowly carving a name for herself in the county. And it wasn’t until Cora had cracked open a bottle of Derek’s fancy foreign wine and poured her heart out that she realized how badly she’d needed to vent. It had been a month and a half since she’d been introduced to Lydia Martin by her ever loving, albeit nosy sister. And it had been a month and a half of pure hell.

Most of their sessions still went the way of the first -- that was, Lydia brought herself and her snide attitude, and Cora dealt with it because she could afford real vegetables and pay bills and fix that crack in the wall her landlord refused to admit even existed. The canvas piece she’d set aside for the redhead was still untouched, and seemed like it would stay that way forever, at the cost of her sanity.

“She can’t be that bad,” Derek said.

Laura nodded. “And she’s paying off your loans one meeting at a time, right?”

“I’m not -- I’m not after the money.” That was a bold-faced lie if she ever told one. The money was the _only_ reason she kept subjecting herself to Lydia Martin. “And I won’t go as far to say that she’s the devil incarnate, but she’s...” Cora trailed off, casting around to try and find the right words to describe her commissioner. “Impossible. Frustrating. Satan in stilettos.”

“The bane of your existence?” Laura held her wine glass up with a smirk. “Or the love of your life?”

Cora laughed outright, stomach twisting at the thought. Her, falling for Lydia? The woman who put down Cora’s color palette choice two weeks in a row? The same one who insisted Cora could do better, was uninspired, needed a new direction? No. There was no way. She’d rather eat glass. “You guys are the worst.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. Laura raised hers, too.

“Cora,” he said gently, “she’s all you talk about.”

“Right?” Laura agreed. “Kind of reminds me of you back in high school, when you bitched and moaned about that girl who sat next to you in that photography class.”

“And then you went and dated her for six months,” Derek said.

“Go to hell,” Cora snapped. She kicked Derek in the shins. “But pass me the wine first.”

That was the end of polite conversation. They all squashed together on Laura’s couch to watch _The Shawshank Redemption_. It had been one of their parents’ favorite movies, and Cora suspected Laura always brought the choice up in the months before the fire’s anniversary to try and remember the good times. And they did have good times: the extended Hales would come together at their parents’ house for huge dinners and summer picnics and Christmases and Thanksgivings. Cora remembered one such evening, where everyone piled into their living room to watch a movie she can no longer recall. Cousins had been sprawled over cousins, and the next day their mother had made her, Derek, and Laura pick up all the popcorn they’d spilled the night before. There had been _so_ much, and they’d ended up sneaking Buttercup, their old lab, handfuls of the stuff -- so much, in fact, that he threw it all up later on that day. Derek had taken the blame, and both Laura and Cora had felt so bad about his punishment (a grounding, and no _ice cream_ ) that they’d crawled up the trellis leading to his bedroom window and kicked off the gutter. They’d _all_ been grounded after that.

It was one of the last memories Cora had of everyone together before the fire, and it was a good one, though it still hurt to think about sometimes. She laid her head down on Derek’s shoulder, and Laura shoved her legs under Cora’s. Sull’aria played onscreen and, for a moment, everything was perfect.

 

-

 

Two months in, during another session where Lydia methodically picked apart each of Cora’s pieces on display, Cora snapped. There was only so much criticism she could handle in a day, and Lydia had hit the limit. It felt like a turning point -- or an end. “Look, if you don’t like my _style,_ then why are you even here?”

Lydia tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed like she was confused or hurt, but more than likely she was neither, just conniving. Trying to figure out Lydia’s double meanings got under Cora’s skin like nothing else, just another reason to let go.

“I never said I didn’t like your style,” Lydia said lightly, twirling a lock of red hair around her index finger, making the innocent maneuver look anything but. “You can do better. So much better. And I’d hate to see you tether yourself to, this --“ she waved her hand, disinterested, at a fruit bowl and lighting study. It was a typical art student piece, but showcased Cora’s talent nevertheless. At least, that had been its original purpose.

Cora lifted an eyebrow, blood pressure on the rise. “And you think insulting me will make me, what, paint at a higher level?”

“Won’t it?”

“You have a real misguided sense of what inspires me.”

“I beg to differ,” Lydia said, grabbing up a sketchpad Cora had left out. She flipped the pages. “After every meeting, you draw like crazy.”

“Because _you_ make me crazy!” she said, lunging after the papers in Lydia’s hands.

Lydia conceded the loss of the sketchpad, but she didn’t back down, instead throwing her arms wide as if to say _my point exactly_. “Emotions inspire you,” she said. “Anger. Hate. It’s _passion._ ”

“And now I’m passionately angry at you,” Cora said heatedly. “Might even throw a ‘hate’ in there, too.”

“Good!” Lydia looked triumphant. “That’s perfect.”

Cora clenched her fists. “You should go,” she said quietly. She’d had enough for today.

Lydia sighed like she was disappointed, but gathered her belongings without a fuss. “See you next week,” she tossed over her shoulder, already one foot out the door; the sound of an engine turning over and tires rolling over gravel quickly followed.

Cora let herself seethe, glaring at her fruit bowl like she could set it afire by the force of her will. _This_ wasn’t what she’d signed up for, getting talked down to like she was back in art school. _This_ didn’t feel like it was worth the money. She was going to call Jackson and tell him to tell Lydia to fuck off and never come back -- just as soon as she calmed down. She grabbed the sketchpad from where she’d tossed it during the fight and started drawing, letting the anger guide her way, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that said this was exactly what Lydia had been talking about.

It was an hour later, as she was digging through her stuff for her phone, when she found another check tucked into her helmet. It was double the amount from last week. She rubbed the paper between her thumb and index finger, staring at Lydia’s loopy signature. Though Cora hadn’t known Lydia long at all, it felt exactly like something she would do to get her way. She wanted to tear the check in half badly, so badly, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She needed the money. In that brief moment, she hated Lydia Martin more than anything else.

 

-

 

She ignored Jackson’s next call and the several text messages that followed, each increasingly ruder than the next. Cora had never met the man before -- all their interactions had been over the phone, and very brief -- but she hated him, too.

She needed a break from her commissioner; every time she thought of their altercation at the studio, she got irritated, and she needed to focus on her future, and her potential installation at the art gallery instead. It wasn’t like she had any progress to make with Lydia’s portrait, anyway. She’d mocked up several ideas for Lydia, and the redhead had brushed each of them away, wanting something different, _better_. Cora frowned at the memories. She put aside the blank portrait canvas sitting out like a sore reminder, and began working on her abstracts.

After two days of avoiding everything and everyone associated with Lydia Martin, she received a text from an unknown number. She was currently on break from another diner shift, hanging out in the alleyway between the employee parking lot and the kitchen door. She swiped the message open, curious.

**_I don’t blame you for ignoring Jackson. He’s the worst,_** it read.

Cora muffled a surprised laugh against her hand. It was Lydia. It had to be. **_you two seem to be cut from the same cloth_** , she wrote back. Almost immediately, the little gray box letting her know Lydia was typing popped up.

**_Not even close. I’m assuming you’re bothered by the pay increase. Why?_ **

Cora rolled her eyes. Exchanging texts went against her ‘ignore Lydia’ policy, but she was curious to see where their conversation would go. **_maybe i don’t like being paid hush money to deal with bitchy clientele._**

Her phone started ringing after her message was marked as read. It was Lydia’s unsaved number. Cora bit her lip, debating on whether or not she should answer. After a long moment, she swiped the call in. “Yes?” she asked.

“Don’t sound so moody,” Lydia replied. “You just called me a bitch. If anyone should be testy, it should be me.”

“I said ‘bitchy’,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. And you can’t just toss money at people as some backwards apology for being mean.”

“I do every day. Works like a charm -- well, usually.”

Cora sighed. “Whatever. Why are you calling?” She only had a few more minutes before she’d have to go back inside.

“My portrait. It’s not done.”

_Not even close, no thanks to you_ , Cora thought. “Yeah, I thought ignoring your assistant was a pretty clear ‘fuck off’.” She sighed then, remembering all the checks she’d cashed. “I’ll pay you back.” She wasn't looking forward to eat ramen for months on end, but it was only fair.

There was a long pause. Then, “You didn’t ignore _me_.”

Cora remained silent, unsure on how to respond. _Why_ was Lydia so adamant that Cora paint her? It was clear as day that Lydia had enough money to get whoever the hell she wanted to paint her portrait, and yet -- she chose Cora. She _wanted_ Cora to do it, if her badgering was any clue. “Why me?” she asked. “Why do you want _me_?”

“Because you’re good -- and you’re going to be _great_ ,” Lydia said plainly, and the bare honesty in her words made Cora’s breath catch in her throat.

It also made her second-guess herself. She ran her hand through her hair, thinking. Lydia was hard to work with, sure, but Cora could be, too. If she laid some ground rules -- maybe, just maybe, it could work. “Look," she started, "I might be hired, but I’m not ‘the help’. You came to me… and if you still want to do this, we do ‘this’ my way."

Lydia hummed. “Well, well. Look at you. I _like_ this new ‘I’m the alpha’ attitude.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“On the stipulation that you come by my offices tomorrow at ten,” she replied. “My schedule’s booked through... otherwise I’d visit your darling studio.”

Cora bristled, at both the backhanded compliment and the idea of going to Lydia’s workplace. She’d rode past the building several times before, and even from the outside landscaping she could tell she wouldn’t fit in. “Can’t you clear your schedule? You’re the boss,” she said.

“I am, and I would -- but I’m leaving the country in a few days.”

“Permanently?” Cora asked hopefully, though now that she’d said it, the thought wasn’t as appealing as she thought it would be.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Lydia replied dryly. “Look, it has to be done this way -- if you want to see me at all. Can you come?”

A weird feeling settled in Cora’s stomach, the words _if you want to see me at all_ ringing in her ears. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be there.”

 

-

 

Cora arrived the next day precisely at ten, and was met at the bottom of the lobby by a guy who looked like a carbon copy of all the douche-bros she had hated in college. He introduced himself as Jackson, and she only had a moment to marvel at Lydia’s terrible taste in assistants before he led her upstairs; and, just like she had predicted the day before, she stood out like a sore thumb. The hallways were devoid of any warmth, immaculately manicured and designed. She had googled Lydia Martin after their first meeting, and all the titles Laura had given the redhead -- millionaire, philanthropist, math genius -- rang true, although the nature of her work, and what exactly she needed an entire building for, wasn’t well-documented on Wikipedia or Lydia’s own website.

“Cora, thanks for coming,” Lydia said, when Jackson ushered Cora into a separate office. She stood up from behind the sleek-looking desk, and subtly dismissed her assistant with a wave of her hand. The door clicked shut behind him a moment later.

Cora raised her eyebrows as she stood in the center of Lydia’s office, wondering where all this formality was coming from. She hadn’t known Lydia long, but even at their first meeting their interactions hadn’t been quite so -- cold. Cora couldn’t decide if this was some power play Lydia had concocted to punish her for ignoring Jackson’s initial calls the other day, or if her life really was like this when she wasn’t in Cora’s studio. She cleared her throat and gently set her canvas bag on an uncomfortable-looking chair. “So -- that’s Jackson, huh?” she asked.

Lydia pressed her lips together, as if suppressing a smile. “Yup,” she agreed. She sighed deeply. “We dated in high school,” she admitted, as if she could read Cora's thoughts on why she kept Jackson around. “It didn’t work out, but we both discovered that he’s unusually adept that knowing what I need without having to ask. It’s a skill most people lack.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Please tell me that’s not some gross sexual innuendo.”

“Are we in fifth grade?” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Come on -- I’ve been doing some research, and I think I found my theme.”

“Unbearably picky?”

“Shut up and bring me your sketchpad. _Please_.” The last word was tacked on with much exasperation, but Cora found herself smiling nevertheless -- it looked like her ‘I’m the alpha’ talk had worked.

The meeting was only supposed to last twenty minutes, but when Jackson poked his head through to let Lydia know her next client had arrived, she’d ordered him to reschedule her entire afternoon. She turned to Cora afterwards and reached out, like she wanted to touch Cora’s wrist, but quickly drew her hand back. “Do you want to grab lunch?” she asked suddenly.

Cora looked at her in confusion for a long moment before agreeing -- and she was almost sure she saw relief flicker across Lydia’s face afterwards. Weird. She grabbed her belongings and followed Lydia to the parking garage; Lydia talked the entire way, showing Cora this and that, but she wasn’t really paying attention. This outing was beginning to feel a little less like a painter and their commissioner, and more like something friends would do. She glanced at Lydia from the corner of her eye, wondering what twilight zone they’d fallen into.

Lydia chose a hip vegan place when Cora demurred on making a decision. They were seated alfresco almost immediately, and Lydia explained that she often came here for lunches when Cora raised her eyebrows to the treatment.

"You bring your business associates to a vegan place," Cora said flatly.

"Of course not. My best friend likes the wraps," Lydia said offhand. Mild shock flickered across her face next, like she couldn't believe she admitted she had friends -- or, more likely, that she'd brought Cora to the very same place. She cleared her throat and said, "You should try it.”

An awkward tension fell between them then; Cora unsure of what to say in a setting beyond her studio, and Lydia seemingly content to sit with her in silence. Cora closed her menu after a moment -- the wraps sounded just fine -- and forced herself to sit still, though the nervous part of her wanted to fiddle with everything on the table. Then she remembered Lydia’s request the night before.

“You said you couldn’t clear your schedule,” she said, suddenly suspicious. “But you made Jackson rework your afternoon.”

Lydia opened her mouth, like she was going for a quick retort. Then, she sighed, like all the indignant steam went right out of her. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to spend more time with you before I left?” she asked.

Cora looked at her in shock, heart rabbiting in her chest. “What?”

“You’re _real_ ,” Lydia said plainly.

“I’m real.”

“Yeah, _real_. You’re not afraid to argue with me. It’s refreshing. I honestly thought I’d be getting a pushover, but imagine my surprise when I got you.”

Cora snorted. “I thought you were some fifty year old tart,” she admitted, feeling strangely loose all of a sudden. “So imagine _my_ surprise.”

“You won’t get any sympathy from me, sweetheart. Standard social rules state to always look up strangers you’re supposed to meet.”

“To be fair, your website doesn’t really reveal much.”

Lydia smirked. “I made my nut early on,” she said. “I mostly dabble in charity work now.”

“You? Charitable?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I founded an organization that specializes in helping young girls find their way into STEM fields,” she said, suddenly serious. “I wasted a lot of time in high school hiding my interests, pretending I didn’t know that a mountain lion and a cougar were the same damn thing. Things like that. I’m not sure I would’ve changed my attitude back then, even if there were programs like mine for me to find, but… it would’ve been nice to have the option.”

“That’s -- amazing, actually,” Cora said, because it was true. She didn’t have a single negative thing to say for once, and found that she didn’t even want to. “That’s really cool you’re doing that.”

“It’s my baby and I’m glad to be doing it,” Lydia said with a light shrug. “But thank you.”

The rest of lunch sailed by easily, the previous awkwardness broken by Lydia’s admission. It seemed that whatever facade Lydia had kept around her was sloughing away bit and bit. It made Cora’s stomach swim with nerves. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of Laura and Derek’s teasing a few weeks ago, where she deliberately laughed at the idea of falling for Lydia Martin. Lydia was a beautiful woman, but the wall of snide, holier-than-thou attitude she had surrounded herself with made it easy to ignore that fact. Now, with what looked like the truth peeking through -- Cora could see where this was going, and it was nowhere good.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Lydia asked after lunch was done and paid for, but Cora declined. She needed some advice, and a walk to clear her head.

 

-

 

“I’m in trouble, Boyd.”

Boyd, ever the best friend, stepped back to let Cora into the tiny apartment he shared with Erica. “Do we need to hide a body?” he asked mildly, though Cora had known him long enough to know that he was ready to go to buy a tarp and a chainsaw right that second if she needed him to.

“Not today,” she replied, and made herself comfortable on their couch. He joined her in the living room a minute later, and handed her a glass of what looked like iced tea. She took a cautious sip. “Erica’s new tea blend?”

“Mango ginger,” he agreed with a nod. “What happened?”

“Lydia Martin,” she groaned, and quickly recounted the lunch date she’d had with Lydia while Boyd listened impassively. She’d often complained to him about her commissioner, but _this_ \-- the sudden crush -- was entirely new.

“She sounds like a handful,” he said after a long moment. “And exactly your type.”

“No, she’s not,” she said, and very carefully didn’t mention that both Laura and Derek were under the same impression. “I _hate_ her.” A lie. “Remember when she basically called my work trash and then paid me double so I’d have to stick around?”

“Or maybe she realized how difficult she was to work with and wanted to properly compensate you?”

She paused, her retort sticking in her throat. “You need to stop being so logical,” she said, waggling her finger at him. If there was one thing Lydia Martin was, it was difficult -- and completely self-aware of this fact. But, thinking back on all their interactions, Lydia had never directly insulted Cora; instead, always insisting that she could _do better_. And she wanted to. She sank into Boyd’s couch with a pained groan. “ _Fuck_. Epiphanies suck,” she said. “What do I do?”

He shrugged. “Tell her.”

“If only it were that easy,” she muttered. Cora was bad with feelings, and even worse at expressing them. She just knew, in some way, shape, or form, she’d epically screw up whatever it was between her and Lydia. Even if it was just friendship. It was only a matter of time. “Besides, she’s going on some vacation in a few days,” she said.

“I’ve been watching a new show,” he asked after a long moment. “You want in?”

She hung out with Boyd for the rest of the afternoon, thankful for their friendship. He’d always had a knack for knowing what to say, and what not to say, too. By the time the evening came, she was vegged out, her mind at ease. It was a calm that lasted until Erica arrived home.

She threw herself on top of Cora with a squeal. “Why don’t you visit me when _I’m_ alone at home?” she asked.

“She likes me better,” Boyd said, smiling mildly.

Cora rolled off the couch, bringing Erica with her. They landed with a thump. “He speaks the truth,” Cora said, struggling back up onto her knees, “but you do make better iced tea.”

Erica sighed dramatically, throwing the back of her hand against her forehead. “We’ll always have iced tea, you and I,” she said. She propped herself up on her elbows. “Well, since you’re here -- let’s go out!”

Boyd and Cora groaned in unison.

 

-

 

The Jungle was packed wall to wall with dancing bodies. Not unusual for a Friday night, but the scene didn’t do much for Cora. She preferred quieter bars, if she had to go out at all. “This can’t be up to fire code,” she yelled into Erica’s ear.

Erica shrugged, a flirty grin on her face. “Who cares?” she yelled back. “You need a distraction, don’t you?”

Cora rolled her eyes, suddenly sorry that she’d backfilled Erica on her current Lydia Martin situation. “I’m going to get a drink,” she said, jerking her chin towards the bar.

She elbowed her way through the crush of people until she managed to slip between a gap to the bar top. She felt a familiar itch between her shoulder blades while she was waiting for the bartender, and she turned a fraction to find someone watching her with interest. They lifted their drink as soon as they caught Cora’s gaze.

_Perfect_ , she thought. Another reason she hated clubs: people hitting on her. She wasn’t blind to her looks, the “good Hales genes” a running family joke that hadn’t skipped Cora. But it’d been a long time since she’d dated, or hooked up, and the thought of going home with someone -- someone that wasn’t _Lydia_ \-- felt wrong. A wave of irritation settled over her at the thought, realizing that she was in deeper than she’d originally thought. When the bartender came around next, she ordered three rounds of shots. Tonight, she wanted to forget.

 

-

 

Cora woke the next morning with a wicked headache, and not a clue as to how she’d managed to stumble home. She had a faint memory of someone shoving her into a car -- and then, nothing. “Fuck,” she whispered, and peeked out of the covers that, truth be told, were doing a shit job of blocking out the sunlight.

She was not in her room. She whipped the covers off when she realized this and sprung to her feet, heart and head thumping wildly. She didn’t have a king sized bed, or a vanity dresser, or a giant walk-in closet. “Oh my god,” she choked out, and quickly gathered the clothes she must have tossed around the room the night before. Where the fuck was she? Better yet, had she hooked up with someone? She hopped into her jeans while simultaneously scrolling through her phone, trying to piece the rest of her night together.

Someone knocked then. “You alive?” they asked through the door, and Cora nearly fell over in her panic because she _knew_ that voice. It was Lydia. _Jesus Christ_ , she thought wildly, gaze darting around the room. She could jump out the window and book it, or hide. But the door opened before she could do either. “Cora?” Lydia asked tentatively.

“It’s me,” Cora said, a little hysterically. “In your home. With no memory of getting here.”

Lydia sighed. “You called me last night, asking for a ride home. And when I picked you up, you very helpfully described your address as ‘above the Laundromat’.”

Cora paled as the memory came back to her. She’d had enough of The Jungle -- it had been too packed, and much too rowdy for her tastes, even in her drunken stupor -- but Erica hadn’t wanted to go home just yet, and Cora hadn’t had the money to pay for a full cab ride home; and, for some reason, her drunk sensibilities had argued that calling _Lydia_ (instead of Laura, or Derek, or literally anyone else she knew) was a _brilliant_ idea. “Thanks,” she said, mortified. “I’ll -- get out of your hair.”

“You can stay for breakfast,” Lydia said, shrugging. “If you want.”

Cora declined, embarrassed enough already. Had she said anything? Confessed her feelings? She didn’t think so -- or, at least, if she had, Lydia gave no indication of it -- and she wanted to leave. Preferably hole up in her apartment and stew in her shame for a little while.

Lydia reminded her that she’d be gone for the next three weeks when she saw Cora to the door. “I’ll call you when I’m back,” she said, and it sounded like a promise.

It felt like those weeks dragged by. Cora worked on her portfolio in the interim, though Lydia wasn’t ever far from her thoughts.

She _liked_ Lydia. The stupid, ridiculous, asinine theory that Laura and Derek had weaved in the very beginning had come true, and Cora didn’t even care. Her mother had always said Cora was the most passionate out of her children. It was something she was beginning to understand was what made her feel so deeply, love and hate in equal measure.

Still, the epiphany of her feelings for Lydia had to take a backburner for her gallery portfolio. The submission deadline was in two days, and she still had one more piece she wanted to finish. And if anything good came out of Lydia steamrolling into her life and taking up space in her heart, it was that she was drawing and painting and producing more than she had ever in her life. Not all of it was good, or even decent, but some pieces were truly inspired.

Cora blinked, and drew her paintbrush away from the canvas. She had dipped into orange when she _swore_ she’d been going for purple, block fills turning into flowing lines. She stepped back, heart in her throat. She’d just -- she’d just painted Lydia.

The picture was clear, if unfinished. It was from one of their very first sessions together. Lydia had had her hair pinned up, soft curls tumbling over her temples like a crown. She had been wearing a purple scarf and an orange jacket. “Armani, spring,” she had sneered when Cora had commented on the bright color scheme.

She whipped a sheet over the canvas and moved on to a fresh one, trying not to think too deeply into what this meant.

Two days later, she submitted her portfolio, having pushed through the final touches the night before. She called Laura afterwards, filled to the brim with a giddy feeling she could only describe as excitement and pride at getting her project done. “I have a good feeling about this one,” she said. “I stayed up until two this morning finishing those bitches, but it’s finally done.”

“I’m proud of you, Cor,” Laura replied. “Did Vallack say anything when you showed him your portfolio?”

“His poker face was on, as usual, but these were _good_ , Laura. Like, I haven’t been this inspired since -- fuck -- since forever. He’s supposed to call tomorrow to tell me if I got the spot. If I do, drinks are on you!”

Laura laughed. “When are drinks _not_ on me?”

“When they’re on Derek. Duh.”

Cora spent the next day on pins and needles, waiting for the call that would, hopefully, give her the good news. She didn’t like Dr. Vallack. Most people didn’t. He was an uptight jerk, but he also owned the only upscale gallery in town. Derek’s advice was to leave, travel with him to bigger cities and better opportunities, but she didn’t want to give up on Beacon Hills just yet.

The morning came and went without any news, and Cora’s enthusiasm from the day before quickly fizzled out. She went to her shift at the diner at noon, and when she checked her phone during her first break, she had a voicemail. Her stomach twisted. _This is it_ , she thought. Either she got it, or she didn’t -- and though she tried to tell herself that it wouldn’t matter if she got passed over, she knew she would be crushed if she was.

“ _Ms. Hale, this is Dr. Vallack from the Beacon Hills’ Galleria. I’m sorry to say that we don’t have an opening for you on our walls at this time. You can retrieve your portfolio at any time during our business hours. Thank you and --_ ”

She deleted the voicemail without listening all the way through.

 

-

 

“I’m throwing an art gala next week,” was the first thing Lydia said at their next appointment. It had been nearly a month since Cora had seen her, and she looked no less beautiful.

Cora half-shrugged. “Okay?” she replied, mildly confused.

“I want you to come,” Lydia said. She plucked a crisp invitation out from her purse and gave it to Cora.

Cora turned the cardstock over in her hands with a frown. The gala was to take place in Lydia’s building, a black tie affair, and the only memory she had of Lydia’s office up town was _not_ a good one. Lydia’s assistant had looked at her like she was a piece of gum that had gotten stuck to his shoe on the way to work -- a feeling that had remained the rest of the hour until she and Lydia had departed for lunch. Cora hadn’t remembered a time when she’d felt more uncomfortable, and she wasn’t eager to attend a party with the same people who wouldn’t look at her twice on the street. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“It’ll be fun,” Lydia pressed. “Free food, free drinks -- tons of networking opportunities. I was thinking of featuring your black and white work, or maybe your abstracts?” She got up and began shifting paintings around, gently removing the sheets and surveying Cora’s work with purpose.

Cora sighed. “You did hear me when I said ‘no’ the first time, right?” she asked.

Lydia tapped her chin with her index finger, not even bothering to glance Cora’s way. “I distinctly remember ‘I don’t think so’ coming out of your mouth,” she replied, glancing over with her eyebrows raised before turning back to the set of paintings she had rearranged for viewing. “And I think I can change your mind.”

Cora rolled her eyes. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” She untied her smock and tossed it onto her workbench. “I’m getting a soda. You want one?”

Lydia shook her head, and Cora jogged out to the vending machine she shared with the warehouse around the corner. She needed the sugar boost now more than ever; she had a distinct feeling her attendance at the gala wasn’t as negotiable as she hoped it would be if Lydia wanted to showcase her pieces. She’d have to buy a dress; maybe borrow some high heels from Laura. She popped the tab of her coke open and took a sip, a weird shiver of nerves running through her at the thought. It would be a great way to finally break into the Beacon Hills art scene, but it didn’t make the prospect any less of a daunting task. Would Vallack be in attendance? The still remembered the sting of his rejection, and she wasn’t looking forward to a repeat performance.

When she came back, Lydia was on the far side of the studio. Her heart lurched, suddenly remembering the haphazard way she’d left Lydia’s impromptu portrait. It looked like Lydia had found it, the white sheet Cora had thrown over it weeks ago a pile on the floor.

“What is this?” Lydia asked, when Cora came to stand next to her. Her voice sounded strangled.

Cora winced, her cheeks heating up. “You.”

“I can see that it’s me, Cora,” she said. She turned to face Cora and folded her arms across her middle. “I mean -- why me?” For the first time since Lydia had stepped through her studio doors, she sounded unsure.

“Why not?” she replied. She gestured to the piece. “I got inspired, or whatever.”

Lydia smiled faintly. “Or whatever.” She rubbed her arms. “Do you remember your first art show?”

Cora shrugged. “Sure,” she replied. It had been some middle school competition that had taken place during the annual book fair. Several different schools around the county had submitted their top art students, with the overall first place winner to receive a fifty-dollar allowance to buy whatever book they wanted. Her art teacher had chosen Cora’s drawing to represent their school. She remembered being flattered, and surprised; in fact, seeing her drawing up on the wall had allowed her to realize her dream of being an artist. She hadn’t won that day, though -- another student from the prep school across town took the prize.

“It was me,” Lydia said, after Cora recounted the memory. Cora gaped. “But I always thought it should’ve been you,” she admitted quietly. “And in all these years, I never forgot your name. When I met your sister at a charity function and she mentioned you were still painting… I had to see where you ended up.”

Cora flushed, her throat going dry. She hadn’t ended up anywhere. The only reason she was doing okay now was because of the supplemental income Lydia’s patronage brought her. “Are you satisfied?” she asked bitterly, suddenly angry and embarrassed. She snatched the sheet off the ground and tossed it over Lydia’s half-finished portrait, not wanting to look at it any longer; it felt like a spotlight on every single failure and flaw in her life, far too many to count. “I’m a nobody.”

Lydia looked taken aback. “You’re not a _nobody_ ,” she said fiercely. “Just -- come to the gala.”

“So, what?” She laughed. “So I can meet all your rich friends? Kiss their asses like I’ve been kissing yours?”

“You call this kissing my ass?”

“No -- I call this giving you the emotional, unstable artist treatment!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked angrily.

Cora threw her arms wide. “What isn’t?” she yelled. Her entire life had gone up in flames a decade ago; she was living above a Laundromat and had barely been making ends meet before Lydia had walked into her life. Not even the local gallery thought she was worth their time. Eventually Lydia would leave -- it was inevitable, no matter what game Lydia was trying to play with setting up the gala -- and Cora would go right back to struggling. In the back of her mind, she knew she shouldn’t be raging against Lydia like this, but it felt good to direct her anger somewhere.

Lydia whirled away, heels clicking on the cement. “I don’t have time for tantrums,” she snapped, snatching her purse off the hook by the studio exit. “The galas next Friday. Come, or don’t -- I don’t care anymore.”

The silence that followed her departure was deafening, and Cora was left in the quiet to stew in her guilt. She’d called it with Boyd, all those weeks ago: she fucked everything up, all because she couldn’t handle someone trying to help her. Just like she blew up at Laura. Just like how she pushed everyone she cared about as far away as they would go. Her eyes burned, and she knuckled the tears away before they could fall.

 

-

 

She fell into a funk, all of her inspiration gone; she went to the studio several times since her fight with Lydia, giving up after only a few hours of fruitless work. She thought about calling Lydia, asking for forgiveness, but she knew she didn’t deserve it. She’d been horrible, a real brat. The worst of it was that she had been so busy with Lydia and her portfolio that the anniversary of her parents’ death rolled up on her without warning, the only reason she remembered because Laura asked for her opinion on floral arrangements. It had been a long time since she’d felt this terrible.

She avoided Laura’s calls after that, choosing to hide away in her crappy apartment until someone came knocking. She avoided them, too, until the pounding became impossible to ignore. She yanked the door open with a growled out, “What?”

“You’re an asshole,” Laura snarled. She was dressed in all black, and Cora remembered with a start that she was supposed to meet her siblings at the cemetery to lay flowers at their parents’ grave -- today. She had never missed an anniversary, not once, even when she was going to school out of state. The date was a difficult time for all of them, Laura and Derek leaning on Cora for support the same way she leaned on them. And she hadn’t been there. She stared at Laura, frozen in guilt and shock.

“Are you going to let me in?” Laura asked, and shouldered her way in when Cora stepped aside. “What the _hell_ is going on with you, Cora?” she asked.

Cora hugged herself, casting her eyes around the room so she wouldn’t have to meet Laura’s disappointed gaze.

Laura threw her arms wide. “Well? Are you going to answer me?”

She flinched, Laura’s words like a physical blow. Everything had gone to shit. She ruined things with Lydia, Laura was furious with her (and surely Derek was, too), her _life_ was going nowhere -- it was like all of her nightmares rolled together, come to life. Her eyes burned, and her breath hitched, and the whirlwind of emotions she’d been avoiding crested over her like a tidal wave. She sat down on the futon with a sob. “I’m sorry,” she said, and everything she hadn’t yet told Laura came tumbling out in one strung out, rambling mess; her feelings for Lydia, Vallack’s rejection, the gala, everything. And with each admission, the weight she hadn’t even known was pressing down on her shoulders lifted an infinitesimal amount.

By the end, Laura was sitting next to her, an arm curled around her shoulders. “Cora,” she said softly, “why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I’m a failure. A real life, struggling artist.” She wiped her eyes. “And I’m selling my paintings at the Sip n’ Dip, but that’s not enough to pay the bills, so I work at a diner, too.” She threw her arm out at her apartment. “And I live above a Laundromat.”

Laura frowned, and Cora continued on, “I also freaked out on the woman I have feelings for because I suspect she might _actually_ like me and I can’t see a reason as to why. Oh, and I’m a shitty sister.”

“You’re not a shitty sister, and you’re not a failure. We all make mistakes and say things we don’t mean. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you _human_.” Laura brushed Cora’s hair behind her ear. She smiled then, sad but still sweet. “Don’t give up on your dreams, Cor. You’re an _amazing_ artist, and I’m sorry I ever tried to convince you to do something else.”

“You sound like mom,” she said with a watery laugh. She sobered then, remembering what day it was and why Laura was even here in the first place. “I miss her. I miss _all_ of them.”

“I know. I do, too.” She squeezed Cora tight. “C’mon, get dressed. Derek’s waiting in the car.”

The drive to the cemetery was quiet. Cora expected an admonishment from Derek, but it never came; and for that, she was immensely grateful. Forgiveness came easily between the three of them, even if they didn’t deserve it, or ask for it. She knew she’d have to explain herself to him eventually, but today, she knew she didn’t have to.

They laid flowers on each headstone, eight in total, and paid their respects in silence, their heads bowed together.

It gave Cora time to think, Laura’s words on her mind. She was human. She made mistakes. And goodness knew she’d said _a lot_ of things she didn’t mean in the heat of the moment. Most recently, her argument with Lydia. There wasn’t much she could do about her rejected portfolio, but she could make amends with Lydia. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

 

-

 

It was the night of Lydia’s gala, and Cora was ready. She’d spent all afternoon getting dressed and doing her hair and makeup, with Laura and Erica as her guides in all things fancy. 

“You practiced your love speech?” Laura had asked, right as Cora was about to leave.

“It’s just an apology,” Cora had replied, but if all went well -- she would admit her feelings to Lydia, too.

She felt awkward in her dress and high heels as she climbed the stairs to the entrance. But, she had to admit as she checked herself in the reflective glass siding, she looked _good_. Hot, even. She handed her invitation over to the security guard out front, and slipped past him when he waved her on. She spotted Jackson in the lobby and sent him a nod. He nodded back. She still didn’t like him, but she could tell he cared for Lydia, and that was _almost_ enough.. 

The room was filled. Several waiters weaved between the exhibits, offering flutes of champagne to the guests milling about. But there was only one guest Cora really cared about, and her stomach swooped when her gaze finally landed on Lydia. It was now or never, she thought, and made a beeline to the redhead.

Lydia saw her coming, and the way her expression brightened before slipping back into a cool façade gave Cora hope that there was still hope for her yet. “Cora,” she said, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for having me,” she said, and nodded politely as Lydia introduced her to the small group of people she had been talking to. “Lydia, do you think I could talk to you for a minute? In private?” she asked, when it looked like she was about to be dismissed.

Lydia’s eyes flashed, clearly still upset, but she obliged with a terse nod.

Cora led her away from the crowd, through a side door that led to a corridor. She turned to Lydia then, the din of the gala now a quiet murmur, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for lashing out at you,” she said. “I was a brat, and there was no excuse for my behavior.”

Lydia’s lips twitched up. “That’s it?”

“No, actually. It’s not,” she said, and pointed to the painting that now hung on the corridor hallway. It was Lydia’s portrait, finished. She had fallen into a painting frenzy after visiting the cemetery, and wrapped it up just in time for the gala.

Lydia took a slow step towards her portrait, almost like she couldn’t believe it was really right there in front of her. “How did you get this in here?” she breathed, turning her stunned gaze onto Cora. 

“Jackson, believe it or not. I convinced him to help me last night, after the other exhibits were completed.” She fought the urge to run her hand through her hair. “I really like you, Lydia. As more than friends. I have for a while now. You drive me crazy like no one else, and --”

Lydia kissed her then. It was more teeth and lips meeting than anything less, but it sent a flash of electricity skipping down Cora’s spine nevertheless. “I’m still _so_ mad at you, but I feel the same way,” Lydia said, touching Cora’s waist lightly after she pulled back a fraction. “And you don’t get to do that, okay? You don’t get to take whatever’s bothering you out on me, because apologizing and painting me something _amazing_ will only cut it once.”

Cora nodded, pressing her forehead against Lydia’s with a giddy smile. “I can’t promise I’ll be easy. That this’ll be easy,” she said, “but you make me want to work for it like no one else has.”

“Then that’s enough for now. Come home with me tonight, after the gale,” Lydia said. “Right now, I want everyone to see your painting.”

 

-

 

They tumbled into Lydia’s apartment, the gala and the portrait and everything that followed almost like a distant memory. Cora spun Lydia around to press her against the door and they met in a bruising kiss, Cora biting Lydia’s bottom lip while Lydia scrabbled at the zipper on the back of Cora’s dress. They had made out heavily in Lydia’s private car on the way home, stopping and starting when it got a little too hot, too fast, and they’d just barely made it up the stairs, too.

Lydia yanked the dress to the floor with a triumphant smile, and Cora stepped out of it with a smirk, rushing back in to lavish kisses along the column of Lydia’s throat. She sucked bruises there, drinking in the low moans that Lydia couldn’t bite back, until she couldn’t wait any longer.

She tugged Lydia to the bedroom and helped her out of her clothes, gently pushing her back onto the mattress and dropping to her knees at the end of the bed. She just took a moment to _look_ , hungry gaze roaming all the planes and dips and curves in front of her. Lydia was beautiful, and Cora was immensely grateful that she’d received her second chance.

She kissed up Lydia’s calf, her inner thighs, relishing Lydia’s panted breaths, until she reached the valley between her legs. “Can I go down on you?” she asked. 

Lydia pushed up onto her elbows, hair askew. “ _Yes_ ,” she said, and threw her head back when Cora spread her lips and licked her clit. “ _Fuck_ , Cora.”

It was what Cora was planning on. She continued her ministrations, alternating between sucking and licking, eventually adding her finger, then two, until Lydia was sobbing and clenching around her. She gentled her actions by fractions, and eventually crawled up beside Lydia on the bed.

Lydia rolled onto her side and reached out, immediately tucking herself into Cora’s embrace. “That was perfect,” she said, voice cracking on a yawn. “Give me five minutes, and then I’m going to blow your mind.”

Cora laughed against her temple, and snuggled closer. “Blow my mind tomorrow morning,” she said. It felt like they had all the time in the world now, and she wasn’t in any hurry. “And I’ll make you breakfast afterwards.”

Lydia fell asleep soon after, but Cora was happy to stare up at the ceiling with someone snugged up next to her, happy and loose. Her portrait of Lydia had been well received at the gala, and by the end of the night, she had several requests for more portrait work. Vallack had been there, too, stiff-lipped and as smarmy as ever, but Cora hadn’t even cared. All she’d seen was Lydia, smiling and proud at her side. She closed her eyes, more content than she’d been in years. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. :)


End file.
